


In the Hands of Another

by hardboiledbaby



Category: Alias Smith and Jones
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-05
Updated: 2010-01-05
Packaged: 2017-10-05 19:43:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/45404
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hardboiledbaby/pseuds/hardboiledbaby
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kid will do whatever it takes to defend me, even take on the Devil himself. In some ways, he already has.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In the Hands of Another

**Author's Note:**

> I sent in all my boxtops, but they're still not mine. Maybe they got lost in the mail... Oh, and it's all about the love (i.e., no money involved)

Patience is a virtue, or so they say. I'm not one for being virtuous, but patience does have its place. At a poker table, for instance. Impatience will be a gambler's undoing, and I've won many a game simply by keeping my head and biding my time when others don't.

But an impatient man who loses, sometimes he becomes a desperate man. Desperation and impatience—it's a dangerous combination. It drives some to try to take by force what they could not win fair and square. I guess it comes with the territory, the lot that falls to men whose fortunes are made or lost by the turn of a card. Treacherous territory. Thank God for my partner.

At the first sign of a threat, he's there, fists or gun at the ready. Not that I can't handle myself, mind you. All things being equal, I can hold my own in a fair fight and he knows that. But these situations aren't fair. The deck's already stacked, in one form or another. If that final, all-or-nothing hand gets played, Kid will do whatever it takes to defend me, even take on the Devil himself. In some ways, he already has.

Tonight, I was confronted by an angry stranger who was foolish enough to bluff with a busted straight, then was reckless enough to try and recoup his losses with a bullet. But even as he cleared his holster, Kid was between us, his Colt out and aimed true. My heart lurched, and the world froze.

The man wasn't much of a gambler, but in this game of life and death, he read Kid's face and knew enough to throw in his hand. He slowly re-holstered his gun and backed away. When he hit the doors, he turned and fled. Kid, still wary, kept his weapon drawn as I gathered up my winnings. Thankfully, no one else objected as we left the saloon.

Now that we're finally alone, I turn to face him. He steps in close, close enough for me to see myself reflected in his eyes. I see what only he sees—the fear buried deep inside, the cold dread that sweeps me every time he stares down the wrong end of a gun. He smiles a little in understanding, because he knows what I need: I need him, to feel him, whole and unharmed. Only this can reassure me, make me stop thinking of what might have been. He reaches out for me.

My partner's hands are tough and capable, like the rest of him. Efficient and even deadly, when they need to be. But now they move slowly, patiently, as though gentling a skittish horse. Deft and sure on my body, they trace every curve, every plane, every secret place. The devotion in those hands soothes me, even as they make me ache and arch and want. They know me well, maybe too well. Sometimes I wish they didn't.

But I can't think about that now. I can't think at all. I can only feel. His touch chases everything else away, and convinces me that there is life here, and love.


End file.
